Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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Peter Corbold was usually a sound sleeper with an easy conscience, but his first night ashore in Rioguay was a restless one. He had had a tiring day, followed by the disturbing influence of finding himself in utterly strange surroundings; while as a climax came Uncle Brian’s lengthy and amazing disclosures.

His bedroom was in the east wing of the building—a spacious apartment, with stone walls and floor, the latter covered with native rush-mats. In one corner was a porcelain bath with shower attachment, in another a wardrobe, with the legs standing in shallow bowls filled with kerosene—a necessary precaution against the destructive insects of that region. The bed was of the folding cot variety, its legs also standing in oil-filled saucers, while in addition, it was fitted with a double mosquito curtain. The two windows were jalousied, while on the outside were iron bars that gave the spacious room a prison-like aspect.

There were electric bells, hot- and cold-water taps, and a ventilating fan, indicating that El Toro was not behind the times as far as the interior fittings went.

Peter lost no time in undressing and turning in. Having made sure that no rest-destroying mosquito lurked within the gauzy network, he switched out the light and closed his eyes.

But sleep he could not. He reviewed the conversation with his uncle. Several things required explanation. What prevented Uncle Brian, even if he remained in Rioguay, from communicating his discoveries to the British Government? Why hadn’t the Foreign Office got to know of this seemingly obscure republic’s preparations and the creation of a formidable navy and a still more formidable air-fleet? Then, again, what was Ramon Diaz’s object in trying to ram down Peter’s throat his version of Jutland? These and a score of other questions had for the present to remain unanswered.

Nor could he account for President Jaime Samuda’s temerity in contemplating a trial of strength with the British Empire, unless the Rioguayans, taking the case of Ireland as a guide, had utterly underrated the mental and physical fibre of the British nation.

The dawn of another day found Peter opened-eyed and restless on his bed.

With the first blast of the syren summoning the employees of the El Toro works to their labours, Peter rose, completed his toilet, and strolled out of the house.

Somewhat to his surprise, he encountered his uncle looking brisk and spruce, as if the strain of the previous evening’s conversation had had no effect upon him.

“Hello, Peter!” he exclaimed. “No need for you to turn out so early on your first morning here. Slept well?”

His nephew had to admit that he had not.

“You can make up for that during the heat of the day,” rejoined Uncle Brian. “Here, we work from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., knock off till four in the afternoon, and then carry on till six. It’s a short working day compared with that at home, but I find that it’s useless to expect to keep these fellows at high pressure for more than six hours a day. That they’ve jolly well got to do, or the Government would have something to say. Well, now you’re up and about, we may as well make a tour of the works.”

They made a tour of the rolling shop, the pressing shop, the foundry, and other departments. Although in every case the plant was up-to-date, there was nothing to cause Peter to show any surprise. He had seen similar machines at Dartmouth Engineering College and at the various Royal dockyards.

Presently they arrived at a large galvanized-iron building, enclosed by a massive wall of earth.

“This is part of the oil-fuel distillery,” announced Uncle Brian. “Here we have stored about 50,000 gallons of kerosene, conveyed by pipe-line from the wells at Tajeco, about fifty miles from here. From this tank it passes into an apparatus in yonder building to have the flash-point raised to something like 200° F.”

“Then what good is it?” asked Peter.

“Better than before for aeroplane engine work,” replied his uncle. “All our motors are kerosene fired. We don’t use petrol. And kerosene with a high flash-point is practically non-inflammable.”

“And consequently non-explosive,” added Peter.

“Precisely. That’s where safety comes in. Roughly, eighty per cent of fatal accidents to flying men at one time were attributable to fire. This kerosene we are using is an explosive only when under high pressure. In the petrol tank it’s safe; even in the carburetter it is non-explosive; but directly it enters the cylinders and is affected by the compression-stroke it is not only more volatile, but far more powerful than the best aviation spirit.”

“But I take it that the fuel in the ’bus is under pressure,” remarked Peter, who was beginning to take a lively interest. “It must be, in order to maintain an even feed to the motor.”

“You’re wrong there,” replied his relative. “I’ll explain that when I show you a flying-boat ready for service.”

An inspection of the assembling sheds where aircraft were in various states of completion followed, Uncle Brian pointing out various “gadgets” embodied in the design to render the machine practically “fool-proof”.

“Now, here’s a flying-boat in an advanced stage,” he said. “All that is required to complete her is painting and varnishing. That’s done in another building. What do you think of this little fellow?”

The “little fellow” was actually one hundred and twenty feet in length, with a wing-span of a little over sixty feet. With the exception of the patent glass scuttles and screens it was constructed entirely of metal.

“There you are,” continued the inventor. “A child could fly it once it has ‘taken off’. The planes, you see, are on a horizontal axis, and automatically arranged so that should the diving angle become too acute they will adjust themselves and bring the ’bus into a position of safety. The horizontal rudders, too, can either be controlled by hand or set to act automatically. Thus a pilot can set a course and the machine will just carry on, even to the extent of allowing for ‘drift’ and unequal wind pressure. Get aboard, Peter; I want to show you the motors.”

His nephew swung himself up by the open entry-port and found himself in the “cargo hold”, or what would be in war-time the bombing compartment. From here a door through an armoured bulkhead led to the pilot’s “office” immediately above the for’ard pair of engines.

“Now, Peter, here they are,” announced Brian Strong. “See anything remarkable about these contraptions?”

“Sleeveless valves,” replied Peter.

“Good. Anything else?”

“Why, if that’s the full tank, it’s right over the engine,” exclaimed Peter. “And quite a small one at that.”

“If you’ll look, you’ll find that there are three tanks to each engine,” said his uncle, “and one larger one between each pair of motors. They are gravity tanks fitted with automatic valves, so that whatever position the boat assumes there’s always one tank supplying fuel to each motor. Now you see the system of not having the kerosene under pressure until it enters the cylinders. Carburetter—usual type; ignition—magneto.”

Brian Strong took hold of his nephew’s arm, and in a lower voice continued:

“That’s the heel of Achilles, my boy—the magneto. I’ve a little gadget I’m perfecting that will knock all existing anti-aircraft devices silly. It will make these flying-boats as harmless as a non-bacteric fly—as a bee without its sting. There’ll be no aerial menace, Peter. The blighters who declare that the big battleship is a back number will be utterly confounded. And as for Rioguay——!”

He broke off to give a cheerful chuckle.

“Let’s get back and have breakfast,” he said.